


Martins no good, terrible, very bad week

by Handsome_Shark



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chills, Exhaustion, Fever, Hurt No Comfort, Kinda?, Neglect, Sickfic, Threats of Violence, except martin gets sick, expanding on the time martin spent at rikers, never thought I'd use that tag ever, nothing about actual canon changed, there is very minimal self comforting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handsome_Shark/pseuds/Handsome_Shark
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.Martins no good, terrible, very bad week spent at Riker's island.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Martins no good, terrible, very bad week

**Author's Note:**

> been chipping away at this for a while now, and i'm sick of looking at it, so i'm just gonna post it. I might add a second chapter if hte inspiration hits.
> 
> This does include some dialogue from the episode, between Martin and his kids, and Martin and an inmate in the yard.

Being forced into gen pop, after having his own personal cell for 20 years was absolutely absurd. He was positive that he was not cut out for this, not anymore, so he needed to step carefully. He knew that he wasn’t going to be very popular here, either, serial killers never were.

When he’s unceremoniously pushed into a cell, he’s unhappy to find he has a cellmate. 

“Hi, I’m Martin.” He says, introducing himself. If he’s going to be forced to love with someone, he may as well make an attempt to be civil. “And you are?”

The man looks at him from his spot on the bottom bunk, disinterest plain on his face, and goes back to reading his book. 

Ok, so it’s like that. 

Martin looked up at the top bunk, not relishing the idea of having to climb up and down from there. 

“Could you take the top bunk?” Martin asks. “I’m old, not as spry as I used to be, and I’m not too sure I’m going to be able to get up and down very easily.”

His cellmate didn’t even grace him with acknowledging that question, just rolls over to face the wall. 

So, that was a no then. Could this get any worse?

\-------------------

When the cell doors opened the next day, and they were allowed to wonder, he decided to just stay put for now. If he stayed out of the way, then no one would bother him and he could just sit back and observe. He could sneak out into the crowd, learn how the place worked, learn how to manipulate it to his liking. 

At least that’s what he planned, he should have figured that a wrench would get tossed in almost immediately, because that’s just how his life was going lately.

“Whitly!” A prison guard yells, standing outside his cell. “Get up, it’s recreation time.” 

“Oh, no thank you.” Martin says with a smile, sitting on his bunk, reclined against the wall. “I’m fine in here.”

“You don’t get to make the decision.” The guard warns. “You’ll get up and go outside, or I’m sure Mr. Endicott will be happy to send you somewhere even better than this.” 

Martin grimaces, he doesn’t doubt that he could find a worse prison to get him transferred to, and he’d rather not play that game, not at the moment. 

“Fine,” Martin says, climbing down and pulling on his prison issued coat. “Lead the way.” 

Once outside, he picks a spot in the corner and watches the yard, trying to not attract any attention to himself. He really didn’t need any extra, being new, when everyone already knew who he was. 

It doesn’t last long, when the apparent ‘leader’ of gen pop approaches him. 

“I know that look.” The inmate says. “No lie, gen pop can be a scary place, doc, Especially for someone like you.”

“What gave me away?” Martin says, glancing at the man. 

“Everybody knows the surgeon, man.”

“Well, since you know me, I think it’s only fair I know your name.”

“You can call me Oso.” The inmate replies, turning to face Martin. “Listen, my usual advice, find friends that look like you, stick with them.” 

“I don’t think the aryan brotherhood aligns with my secular, humanized, leanings.” Martin chuckles.

“They wouldn’t take you anyway,” Oso says, laughing along with him. “Actually, no one will, not with the bounty they got out.” 

“Bounty?” Martin asks, one eyebrow shooting up. 

“Someone big wants you dead doc. They’re floatin’ cash to whoever gets you first.” Oso explains, looking like he’s telling him about the menu at his favorite restaurant and not about the fact Martin has, apparently, a rather large bounty on his head. “It’s real bad for me, you see, because I'm in charge here. See those faces?” Oso gestures to the entire yard. “They all got respect for me, and 3000 inmates? All comin at your curly head? That’s chaos and I don’t want no more chaos.”

“Listen, um….” Martin says, trying not to show that he’s a little freaked out. “I get it, you want me gone, and that’s what i want, too. So all I need to do is make a few calls, and there’ll be no more bounty, and i’ll be out of your hair.” 

“You misunderstood me, doc. I’m not here to help you, I'm just explaining to you why I have to kill you.”

After that little interaction, Martin has had his fill of gen pop, and he’d very much like to go back to Claremont. Now, not only does he have to keep his eyes open because he’s not very popular here, but now he can add a bounty that made his target ten times bigger to his list of problems. 

While Oso had essentially promised him that he would be the one to kill him, it seems like he gave the go ahead to fuck with him as much as they wanted, so things to do get any better for him. 

The other inmates threaten him at every chance, spit on him as he walks through the corridors. 

Martin even tells the guards that someone is going to kill him, even though he knows, deep down, it’s not going to do any good. 

“Please, someone is going to kill me.” Martin pleads, letting just the right amount of fear bleed into his voice, hoping that he might garder a shred of empathy. “I would rather stay in my cell than go out to the yard.” 

“You and half the inmates in here.” The guard says, laughing. “You ain’t special, get up and get outside.” 

Martin trudges out, posting up in a corner of the yard. It’s the only place he feels even a little safe out here, and no one can get a jump on him from behind. He can’t let his guard down since he has no idea when Oso, or anyone really, will try to get him. Though for the most part, while they’re outside everyone leaves him alone. He figures it’s the wide open space, with guards watching from all angles. 

Inside is a different story. 

After they’re all allowed to go back inside after recreation time, he wanders back to his cell, only to find it closed, and only his, leaving him no place to take shelter. 

He’s forced to sit out in the common area for this cell block, unwilling to wander to any other section he might have access too. The chances of being cornered alone are way too high.

Martin sits there, and insults and threats are hurled his way immediately. He just takes it, sighing deeply, he’s only been here for two days so far, and he is so, so tired already. 

Dinner rolls around, and thankfully after a while, it seemed that the other inmates on his block got bored of him. He wanders to the mess hall, gathers his sad looking dinner only trip, his tray flying as he tumbles over ending up splayed on the ground.

The room explodes with laughter and applause at his pain. 

“What the fu…” He starts to yell, reigning himself in at the last minute, looking over his shoulder and pushing himself up on his elbows. A skinny white kid with his leg stuck out is laughing at him. 

“What was that, doc?” The inmate who tripped him says. “You gotta problem?”

“Nothing, it’s fine.” Martin growls, standing up. He frowns at his meager dinner, now spread on the floor, and his stomach rumbles. He takes a deep breath, and tells himself he needs to be on his best behaviour. He should not let himself be provoked, it would be stupid. The last thing he needs is to lash out and give anyone an excuse to start a fight with him, he won’t have anyone on his side. 

Martin goes back to his cell, which he was happy to find unlocked, and crawls into his bed and tries to not think about how hungry he is. 

\-------------------

The next day is rinse and repeat of the previous, with the unfortunate addition of communal showers. 

Martin is mostly disgusted, one of his privileges at Claremont had been his own personal shower time. And aside from the handful of times he had lost privileges over his time there, he never had to participate in a communal shower with other inmates more than a few times. 

On his walk to the shower, he’s shoulder checked right into the wall, and everyone laughs. He just rubs his bruised shoulder, and keeps his mouth shut. 

Inside the shower room, which is unfortunately mostly unsupervised, and well, he’s afraid. He’s heard the stories, how many ‘accidents’ happening in the showers. If he were the one planning a murder, he would strongly consider making it happen here. 

In short, he feels entirely too vulnerable, but he also knows better than to show that he’s afraid. He makes showering a quick affair, and when he turns to grab the towel that was given to him, it’s gone.

“Can I please have my towel.” Martin says, less requesting and more demanding, but not addressing anyone directly. He gets a few looks, a few laughs, but is largely ignored. 

He growls, annoyed, stalking off to collect his newly issued uniform and dress quickly. His clothes are fully damp by the time he gets back to his cell. 

He wants nothing more than to lay down and wrap up in his thin blanket. The prison is always kept just shy of too cold and he’s freezing in his damp clothes. However, his life just keeps getting worse, his cellmate deciding that he needed a second blanket. 

“Listen.” Martin says, trying very hard to keep his voice even and not waver in anger. “I’d like my blanket back.”

“Fuck off, man.” His cellmate responds. “You’ll be dead soon anyway, i’m just takin’ what’s gonna be mine.”

“Alright, fine.” Martin says, taking measured breaths to try and control his temper. “Whatever.” 

Martin braces his foot on the desk, and tries to pull himself up onto the bunk, it takes several tries and his shoulder protests the action. But he manages, finally flopping down onto the thin mattress and curling into as small a ball as he can, shivering and dozing on and off all night. 

When he wakes up the next morning, well, wake would mean that he actually slept, and he sure he didn’t manage to get any restful REM sleep. He was simply much too uncomfortable, cold and achey to sleep. 

Regardless, when he gets out of bed he's stiff and sore, and no amount of stretching is loosening his tense muscles. 

The cherry on top of it all, insult added to injury, so to speak is that his throat hurts. It's nothing alarming, more of an annoyance, but added to everything else he was dealing with, and it feels like it might be the straw that breaks the camel's back. 

Martin foolishly hopes that it is from his near strangulation, and not because he’s getting sick. 

“Excuse me,” Martin calls out to the guard that is doing rounds. “Um, before I was brought here, there was an incident where I was nearly strangled to death, and I believe I might be experiencing some side effects.” 

“Infirmary is for actual life threatening injuries.” The guard remarks, stopping in front of Martin’s cell. “You look fine to me.” 

“Externally, maybe.” He grumbles to himself, the guard already walking away. Martin raises a hand, gently touching his throat, palpating and internally cursing because he’s definitely a little swollen. 

When Martin is pulled from his cell because he has a visitor, he’s initially terrified, because it’s entirely possible he’ll find Endicott sitting on the other side of that table. 

The relief he feels when he sees his children, it feels like the weight of all his problems since he’d arrived here has lifted, just for a moment. 

“Hey kiddos.” Martin says, sliding into the chair across from Malcolm. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“You don’t look so good.” Ainsley says, noticing the bags under her father’s eyes, how pale he looks. 

“Well, that’s because I don’t feel so good.” Martin says matter of factly. He doesn’t have the energy to put up the pretense that he’s fine here. “I told you this would happen, but did anyone listen to me? No siree. And now I'm sitting here with a target on my back. I miss my cell, and I miss Mr. David, and I do not like it here.”

“You're scared” Malcolm, his head tilting as he understands. His father, scared, was something he hasn’t seen very often. 

“Damn right, i’m scared.” Martin whispers, leaning in close. “There’s a bounty on my head, Malcolm!”

“Why not just give us the evidence?” Ainsley says, she's been thinking through all their options, and it seems like the easiest thing would be to just take whatever dirt Martin has, and air it on TV for everyone to see. “Whatever Sophie had on him, tell us where it is and we’ll stop this guy for good, and you can get out of here.” 

“I can’t” Martin bites out, clenching his fists under the table. 

Malcolms eyes widen in realization. 

“you don’t have anything, and neither did Sophie.” Malcolm says. “That’s why you're scared.”

“Mazel tov, you figured it out.” 

So, There are no files? No evidence?” Ainsley says.

“That is unfortunately correct. It was a… calculated bluff.” Martin says, watching as Malcolm rubs his face in frustration, his hand working up to pull at his hair. “That worked, by the way, might I remind you.” He points out. 

“Did you even let Sophie go?” Malcolm says, looking up at Martin, hanging on for the answer. 

“I most certainly did.” Martin day, almost offended that his son didn’t believe him. “I needed her to call Nicholas, just the once, after, you know… and then I never heard from her again.” 

“Look, I may have started this,” Martin says. “But you can end it, Malcolm, you can stop Endicott, save our family.”

”How?” Malcolm asks, frustration building and threatening to overflow. “If you have nothing, we can’t touch him!”

“By killing him, it’s the only way.” Martin says. ”In your heart you know that to be true.”

“He’s not a killer.” Ainsley says, offended that her father would even suggest that. 

“He’s a whitly, he’ll figure it out.”

“Whitly!” A guard calls from behind the gate. “Times up.” 

“I uh… i love you both.” Martin stands, and starts to walk back, but stops and turns. If this is going to be the last time he sees his kids, then there are things he wants to say to them. “And being your father has been the best part of my life. You- you have been the best part… “ He’s suddenly cut off, one of the guards grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away from his children. 

He doesn’t sleep that night at all.

The longer Oso takes to make a move, the more anxious he’s getting, the more afraid he is that someone is going to take matters into their own hands. That he’ll be shived around the next corner. 

He has a feeling the inmates are getting restless themselves. 

The sleep deprivation is starting to get to him too. He hasn’t really slept in his time here. He certainly doesn’t sleep that night, feeling entirely anxious. Too scared that at any moment he might get shived, even in his own cell. He can’t afford to let his guard down. He refused to die here. 

Regardless, the lack of sleep is decidedly not agreeing with him.

And he’s exhausted, it’s painful, his whole body aches, his throat hurts, and he can’t seem to stop shivering. But the prison is cold and drafty, and he’s yet to be able to steal his blanket back. And no one ever mentions how loud prison is. 

This has been the longest week of Martin’s life, and he strongly feels that’s not even close to an exaggeration. 

\-------------------

In the middle of the night, Martin is jerked out of a doze by his cell door opening, adrenaline floods his system, he’s sure this has to be it. 

Instead of being pinned to his bed as someone shivs him, he’s grabbed by an arm and a leg and forcefully dragged down. He’s laid out on the floor of his cell, disoriented and confused as his hands cuffed and his legs are chained.

“What’s going on?” Martin asks, only to be ignored. He’s roughly pulled up and expected to stand, the guard immediately pushing him forward hard enough he stumbles, almost falling. 

“Where are we going?” Martin asks again, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, unwilling to show fear, but he doesn’t get an answer this time either. He’s worried because it seems like they’re taking him out of the prison. 

“Look I have no idea where you’re taking me, but can I call my son first?” He asks, panic starting to leach into his voice against his wishes. He’s walked outside and when he sees a van waiting he tries to turn back, only to be pushed again, this time out into the rain. “I just want someone to know where I am.”

“Shut up.” The guard warns. “Just get in the van.”

In the short walk to the back of the van he gets soaked, cold rain soaking through his clothing. He ushered into the vehicle, the doors slamming shut behind him, and he’s finally left alone. 

For the first time in a week, he’s blessedly alone, with just the sound of the engine, a welcome change to the loud cacophony of hundreds of inmates. He’s so tired, exhausted down to his bones, and for once, he’s not in immediate danger, so if the gentle motion of the van rocks him into an uneasy, but sorely needed sleep, he can’t be blamed. 

He’s rudely awoken when the van comes to a stop, and he’s pulled from the shelter of the van, back into the rain, only to be met with a wave of dizziness and knees threatening to give out. 

When his eyes adjust, his legs nearly do give out in relief. He never thought he’d be so happy to see Claremont Psychiatric in his life. 

“Thank god…” Martin sighs, but he’s not given any time to process before he’s being pushed forward and walked inside. 

He’s passed off to two of the night guards, and to his dismay, is led down to the isolation cells, the very same one he spent a lot of time in not too long ago. 

“Can’t I go back to my cell?” He asks, voice trembling slightly. 

“Tomorrow.” He’s pushed into the small cell, stumbling and falling when the chain between his ankles snaps taut when he tries to steady himself. The door closes with a heavy clunk behind him and he can hear one of them laughing about how dramatic he is. 

“This is an improvement, I suppose.” Martin says to himself, laying on the floor. He has no energy for much else at the moment. 

Everything he’s been through the past week has crashed into him all at once, on the floor of this cell. He’s shivering, wet from the rain, and he can feel the pull of a fever on his skin. His clothes rubbing oversensitive, highlighting the aches that go all the way to his bones. 

It’s at that moment he realizes, with dread, that he’s probably sick, really thoroughly sick. 

The exhaustion hits even harder when he pushes himself into a sitting position, head swimming and woozy, swaying back and forth. He eyes the sad bunk, the thin blanket, and he wants them so bad, the warmth they promised. But he’s still soaked, dripping on to the cold concrete floor. 

He crawls over to the door, leaning against it.

“Excuse me?” He calls out, though when he tries to raise his voice, he finds it goes hoarse. “Could I maybe get a towel?”

When he gets no response, his eyes drift back to the blanket. He could use that to try and dry off, but then he’d be left with nothing, again, and unfortunately, while he was safe here, the basement of Claremont was just as drafty and cold as Rikers. 

He can’t even take off his shirt because they never uncuffed him. So he ends up dozing off for a while, shivering while he leans on the door, until he dries a little. By the time he drags himself to the bed, weak, cold, and wheezing, the thin blanket he wraps himself in does little against the chill.

Martin is woken up early the next morning, and he feels absolutely awful. The meager dawn sunlight streaming in through the small window hurts his eyes, feeling like it’s piercing through his head. 

A guard, who he can’t help but notice is not Mr. David, takes him from the cell, and walks him to the showers. Walking is more difficult than he’d like, he’s positive if it weren’t for the hand around his arm he would have keeled over in the hall.

But he’s grateful, a nice warm shower would do wonders, will hopefully help to ease the tightness of his chest that he knows is going to turn into a cough. It’s the first real comfort he’s had in a week. A shower with warm water, and one where he’s not on display. The dry clothes he’s given make him feel almost human again, while he’s taken back to his cell.

Home.

By the time he’s left in his cell, what warmth he managed to soak up from his shower is gone and he’s shivering again, a cough tearing it’s way from his chest. 

“Could I ask for my sweater, please?” Martin asks, his voice hoarse, standing behind his line. “And perhaps a visit with the infirmary?”

“The infirmary isn’t for colds Whitly.” The guard says. “I’ll see what I can do about a sweater.”

Martin knows his body well enough to know he doesn’t have a cold. 

Martin hates this, hates having to rely on others for his health care. He just had surgery not too long ago, for crying out loud. He’s not out of the window for complications yet! He could very easily develop pneumonia, if he hasn’t already. In fact, he’s certain it will progress to pneumonia if left untreated. 

But what is he supposed to do, when the people who are supposed to be in ‘charge’ of him refuse to listen to him. 

He lays down, relishing a warm, dry bed and a blessedly quiet building. The best thing he can do now is rest.

\---------------

After being suddenly let go, with no explanation, Mr. David, much to his own surprise, is happy to finally be back at work. He just wants to get back to his routine. He’s warned about Martin Whitly’s trip to Riker’s and is warned that he’s milking it and trying to get more attention.

Mr. David will be the judge of that. 

He takes his usual spot, right outside Martin’s cell, happy to see that the man is sleeping, and not causing any trouble. 

He sleeps for hours, which Mr. David does find a little unusual, since he’s usually asking for access to some privilege by now. 

Mr. David decides to enter the cell, just to check on the man. The guards who had been watching him did mention that he was playing sick. 

“Martin?” Mr. David calls out, but he is unresponsive. Crossing the line, he approaches the sleeping man, placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake, and this close, he can hear his labored breaths. “Martin?”

“Mr. David?” Martin mumbles, rolling over, and his first thought is he must be hallucinating “S’that you?”

“Yeah?” Mr. David says, taking in how rough Martin looks, pale and sweaty. “You feeling alright?”

Martin just shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed again. Mr. David reaches out, pressing his palm to Martin’s forehead, the older man leaning into the touch. 

“Definitely have a fever.” He says mostly to himself. 

Relief floods through Martin, because if anyone was going to help him, it would be Mr. David. But when he opens his eyes again, he finds himself alone. Maybe he was actually hallucinating.  
His eyes begin to sting, this was humiliating, a tear escaping and running down his cheek. 

Martin is drifting in and out of consciousness when someone comes back in the room, Mr. David, with a few orderlies trailing behind him. 

Mr David kneels next to Martin’s bed, slipping a thermometer into Martin’s mouth and holding it there till it beeps. He holds the device up for the orderlies to see. “Need any more proof? 103, now please get him to the infirmary.”


End file.
